


Tough Being the Matchwinner

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Begging, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, liverpool derby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete PWP. Written for a football kink prompt. Andy Carroll and Tim Cahill meet up after a rough Merseyside derby and Cahill manages to get revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tough Being the Matchwinner

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the October 2011 Merseyside derby, in which Liverpool won 2-0 at Everton’s home ground. Suarez scored one goal, and Carroll the other, his first Premier League goal since the start of the 2011-12 campaign. Everton’s Jack Rodwell was given a straight red card at 23 minutes after a very controversial tackle on Suarez.

Andy’s just a few drinks past all right and ordering another when he gets the text.

_would you stop by tim cahill’s house on the way home he wants to trade jerseys with you_

From: Jordan Henderson

He frowns at the screen, reads it two more times. He glances around the crowded bar, confirming that Jordan is nowhere to be found, must have cleared off. Although it would be like him to be hidden in some corner of the bar and text Andy anyway. He furrows his brow. Tim Cahill? After losing 2-0 at Goodison Park? Wants to trade jerseys with one of the lads who scored against him? Hours after the game? Where is his house? These thoughts last only briefly, though, are just flickers. Suddenly his phone vibrates again.

_Sorry stevie told me earlier I just forgot and I think captain fantastic’s drunk off his head now. Address is 327 Elmwood close to the bar I reckon_

From: Jordan Henderson

Andy texts him back, mostly to ensure that Jordan doesn’t text him again.

_Alright thx_

From: Andy Carroll

Andy sighs, knocks back the rest of his drink, and grabs his bag from under the bar. Glancing around once more, he heads out the back door and prepares to hail a cab.

No one has noticed that he’s leaving, even though they usually hound the goalscorers all night. It’s slightly depressing, but he’s slightly too intoxicated to give it more than a slight thought. He gets a cab rather quickly (it’s only twelve-thirty after all), but the cab ride feels even quicker: definitely close to the bar. Andy thanks the cab driver and overtips.

The house is big and modern, a typical footballer’s house on the outskirts of a city, and an inordinate amount of lights are on. On the long walk to the front door, Andy realizes that if he tries, he can see into a bedroom or two upstairs. He briefly wonders why he bothered coming again, but the thought disappears quickly as he finds himself pressing the doorbell.

Tim isn’t long to the front door, opening it and greeting Andy with a warm smile and a cheerful, “Oh, this is a surprise! Didn’t think you’d turn up!”

Andy shrugs, grinning just as wide.

“You all right? Come in, come in!” You’d think they were old friends. The house is warm and feels lived-in, in that good way that Andy’s apartment doesn’t quite yet, and something smells good in the air that he can’t put his finger on. The furniture is modern and lovely, and somehow it goes really well with the coziness of it all. “My wife’s visiting her sister and she’s got the kids,” he explains. “Want a drink? I’ve got whiskey, rum, beer, if you’re in the mood – ”

“Just beer, thanks,” Andy replies, trying not to trip on the carpet in the hall.

“Already had a few, it looks like,” Tim chuckles, not unkindly, as they get to the even more modern kitchen. “So did our lads, but, uh, not in the same spirit, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, our lot are still down the pub,” Andy says, leaning rather heavily against the island.

“Ahh, hate to pull you away from them,” Tim says, pouring his own drink, something harder, Andy can’t quite see.

Andy waves him off. “I was gonna go home anyway.”

“Tough being a matchwinner, eh? They never let you alone,” Tim laughs.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Andy tries to grin, takes the beer that Tim’s holding out. “Cheers.”

“I, uh, I tried to find you after the game, but you disappeared. Wanted the goalscorer’s jersey.” Finally, a tinge of bitterness creeps into his voice, but Andy doesn’t notice.

“Yeah, ’m sorry, I, uh – I don’t know where I was, actually,” Andy says. “I definitely would’ve traded with you.”

“I know, don’t worry about it,” Tim smiles, that Cheshire cat grin that the sober enough give the very drunk. “You’ve got it now?”

“Yeah, in my bag,” Andy motions to the huge messenger/sports bag that is still slung across his chest. Tim grins again.

“Well, whenever you’re ready,” he says smoothly.

“Gin and tonic,” Andy says. He finally figured it out. “Isn’t that a woman’s drink?”

“The first four, maybe,” Tim replies. “This one – not as much.”

Andy laughs, full and long, and Tim grins up at him from across the island. The quakes of his chest remind him that he’s still wearing the bag (finally), and he takes it off, putting it on the floor beside him. Tim smirks.

“Here you go,” Andy says, fiddling with the zipper of the bag, and finally extracting the jersey he wore earlier today. It reeks.

Tim takes it without a complaint, though, looks it over in silence, runs his fingers over the number sublimated on the back.

Andy shifts his feet. “Good game today, though,” he adds, because he likes to think of himself as gracious.

“Yeah,” Tim says, finally looking back up at him, and his expression has changed. “Too bad about the result.”

“Just too bad,” Andy echoes, and Tim gives him a look as if he can’t tell if he’s serious.

“I mean, there wasn’t much in it,” Tim shrugs, and takes a longer sip of his drink. “In the end.”

“Well.”

“There wasn’t, was there?”

Andy shakes his head. “No. We created much more chances than you did.”

“How d’you figure?” He’s gone quite serious now.

“We had more goalscoring opportunities, obviously,” Andy replies. “We played better, we tackled better – ”

“Before the card?”

“Before the card we were still winning.”

“What?!” Tim cries incredulously. “You didn’t even dominate possession! Your lads barely even got a shot on goal!”

“Did you get a shot on goal?” Andy asks innocently.

“Fuck off,” Tim’s voice has turned steely. “Don’t tell me that ridiculous refereeing decision didn’t help your cause a little.”

“What, the red card? That was deserved!”

Tim splutters. “Deserved? People who saw the replay didn’t even think it should have been a foul! But congratulations on finally getting your first Premier League goal… against ten men.”

“Don’t get all huffy, mate,” Andy retorts nastily. “We would’ve won anyway. I mean, you would think you’d be used to it by now,” he continues, not sure anymore whether he’s teasing or not. “It’s not like most of the country pays attention to the game anyway. There’s only ever one result.”

Either Andy has forgotten that Tim bleeds blue, or he’s much drunker than both of them thought, or –

“You must want to get punched in the fucking face,” Tim says through gritted teeth. “Are you fucking joking right now?”

“Fuck off, mate! When I was at Newcastle – ”

“I don’t fucking care about when you were at Newcastle, you overpriced cunt. You won that game because of a ridiculous refereeing decision, nothing more. Get that into your fucking skull!”

Tim’s backing him into the wall, but Andy refuses to back down (though each step is wobblier). “That tackle was worth a straight red – ”

“That tackle was worth nothing! And you know it, you fucker!”

“What I was saying was – when I was at Newcastle, when they’d talk about Merseyside “clasicos”, they’d laugh. Because they’re really a fucking joke. ‘Liverpool wins all the games as long as they matter, because Everton is so bloody awful – even their best player is absolute shit.’”

“Who was their best player?” Tim asks, suddenly calm.

“Take a wild fucking guess.” Andy is halfway to grinning, although his back is pressed against the wall now.

Tim hits him.

He punches him in the face, landing him against the wall completely. Shocked and still pretty drunk, Andy’s reactions are delayed and when he tries to punch Tim back, the shorter man is already hitting him in the stomach. Andy doubles over, falling forward toward Tim until Tim slams him back against the wall. Finally he regains his senses enough to throw a punch, and it hits Tim hard in the chest, forcing him back momentarily. But the next hit is Andy’s ear, which leaves him momentarily disoriented as more blows hit him by the second.

He lurches forward again, and once more feels himself slammed against the wall. He raises a sharp elbow and manages to get some part of Tim – a momentary reprieve. This time when he falls forward, he hits the floor, and hard. Tim is on top of him then, knocking the wind out of him and throwing more and more punches. Andy honestly can’t believe the little fucker is beating him up like this. He grabs Tim by the shoulders and tries to slam him against the floor or something, but he’s much quicker than Andy, and is up on his feet again before Andy can even catch his breath.

Andy stumbles up too, then, but Tim is waiting for him. He hits Andy in the face again, watching him collide with the wall. He forces Andy against the cold tile, and before Andy knows it, Tim’s managed to get his arms above his head.

Andy looks up at his hands, completely trapped. He winces, tries to break free. Tim just smiles. But it’s the Cheshire cat one again, the one he can’t figure out. Tim’s eyes flicker from Andy’s to some spot below, and Andy follows his gaze without wanting to. He regrets it immediately. What’s making Tim grin and what makes Andy want to curl up and die is: there is a tent in his jeans.

Tim licks his lips, the glint in his eye recovered. He cocks his head to the side, curious. Gently, he slides his thigh between Andy’s legs, watching his face intently to gauge the reaction. Andy’s head rolls back, despite himself. His cock twitches against Tim’s leg. Tim takes the opportunity and moves in towards Andy’s throat, kissing up the side of his neck. Andy’s wrists are limp in his hands. “You’re such a sick fuck, getting off on this shit,” Tim whispers between kisses. He chuckles into his neck and Andy shivers. “Well, lucky you. You’ve got me."

Moving along his jawbone, Tim finds his way to Andy’s lips, placing a few surprisingly chaste kisses there. But he pulls away quickly. “If you want to keep going, come upstairs.” He releases Andy’s wrists and steps away, grabbing Andy’s jersey from the table and starting to go upstairs.

A few stairs up, he turns around, and, seeing Andy still plastered to the wall, adds, “I haven’t got all night.”

Tim’s jersey is on a hanger on the doorknob in his room. Ready for Andy, presumably. Other than that, the four-poster bed is the most dominant presence in the room. When Andy enters, Tim is sitting on the bed, taking off his socks. He’s back to being unspeakably calm.

“Close the door behind you,” he says, without looking up. Andy does.

He stands up and looks at Andy up and down, purposefully surveying him. “Well, take off your clothes, then.”

Andy hesitates. Tim just stares at him, waiting. Finally, reluctantly, Andy tugs off his shirt and jeans, leaving only white briefs.

“Nice,” Tim murmurs appreciatively. “Those too, though,” he adds, a false note of sympathy in his voice.

Slowly, painfully to Andy, perfectly to Tim, Andy slides off his underwear. “Mmm. Okay,” Tim goes, and something deep inside Andy really, really hopes that’s approval.

“Now get on your knees,” Tim says softly, and Andy really hates himself for letting it get this far, but fuck, if he isn’t just getting harder. He sinks slowly to the floor, the rug softer than he had imagined.

Tim wanders over to him, stands in front of him, enjoying the height difference. “Unbutton,” he commands. Andy hesitates once more, but does as he’s told. Tim’s own briefs reveal he’s only about half hard. Before he takes them off, Andy brazenly licks up the front of Tim’s briefs. “Mmmmf,” Tim goes, and Andy smiles triumphantly. Tim grips Andy’s hair by the roots for that, finishes taking off his own briefs, and directs him to his cock. “You can get messy, because this is all the lube you’re getting,” Tim tells him.

Andy sucks his cock down greedily in the end, swirling his tongue along the underside and covering the parts that won’t fit in his mouth. Tim is actually quite well-endowed, better than he would’ve thought, even, and he has to make up for in eagerness what he lacks in skill. But Tim isn’t complaining – in fact, he’s moaning like a whore, gripping Andy’s hair even tighter. “Fucking h—Andy,” he groans. “I—”

He thrusts harder and harder, fucking Andy’s mouth unapologetically, until the Englishman’s eyes tear. It gets more difficult to breathe, but Andy’s dick is still at full mast, until all of a sudden Tim pulls out.

Breathless, he takes a minute to recover himself. “Who knew, Carroll? You’re a born cocksucker,” he manages once he’s got some wind back, and laughs. “I might keep you around.”

“I’d like that,” Andy chokes. His eyes are tearing and his lips are puffy – though that could be from the cocksucking. He looks like shit, in all honesty. He’s never felt better.

“Fuck. All right, get on the bed. All fours.”

Andy leaps up onto the bed, all too eager. He gets on his hands and knees, making sure to arch his back, and waits. Tim takes his time, enjoying the sight, and when he finally appears behind Andy it’s almost menacing.

He runs his hand up the inside of Andy’s thigh, making the other man shiver involuntarily.

“Fuck, I didn’t even know you were there,” Andy murmurs.

“Shut up,” hisses Tim. He fingers Andy’s balls, playing with them gently. They’re enflamed, engorged, and Andy squirms, but shuts his mouth. “You’ve got quite a cock on you, Carroll,” Tim says approvingly. Then, all of a sudden, he’s gripping Andy tight and pushing his cock against Andy’s entrance. The bulb goes in, just teasingly, and already Andy can tell that most of the spit, the only form of lube, has dried off. His fingertips grip the sheet a little tighter.

“Stop teasing,” Andy tries, knuckles white against the sheet now.

Tim just laughs. “As you wish,” he replies as he suddenly shoves his dick as far as it will go. Andy cries out in pain, falling forward. Tim thrusts in and out, just as hard as he fucked his mouth, hissing at Andy’s tight heat. “Fucking – fuck,” he groans, tightening his grip on Andy’s hips, scratching the divot ever so lightly with his nails. He gets closer and closer, deeper and deeper, plying him open bit by bit, drilling through Andy to the core.

Tim wraps a hand around his dick, in case the pain has become too much and the pleasure too little, but he finds Andy hard as ever. As he thrusts still harder, Andy loses track of time and space and just lets himself go, be completely controlled by Tim, lets himself be slammed into the mattress again and again and god, please, don’t ever – I’m going to – “Tim, I’m gon—”

At that moment, Tim snaps him out of it. Jerk. He squeezes the base of Andy’s cock, and all of a sudden, he’s aware of himself again, he’s aware of how he’s curved like an S against the mattress, neck curved and head buried and gasping for air, and he just needs needs needs – part of him wants to wrestle Tim off and finish him off himself, he needs to come so bad, just another touch – But he didn’t do so well last time, so maybe it’s better to… God, he needs to come.

“W-why did you – ” Andy gasps.

“Beg for it,” Tim orders.

“Wha—”

“You heard me. Beg.”

“I j—I need it so bad, I want you to fuck me until I can’t breathe anymore, just let me – just let me come, I’ll be so good, I’ve been so bad I’ve been …” he trails off, desperate, keening, whining.

“You’ll be good for me?”

“Yes!” cries Andy, tries to rub against him, tries to get some friction, but Tim holds fast.

“Wait for it, slut!” He slaps his ass, making Andy groan and buck forward.

“Please,” he begs, tears on the edges of his eyelids, “I – I’ll be so good for you, I’ll do whatever you want, I just need – ”

Tim doesn’t like this answer yet, pushes down on him and traps him against the mattress. It wouldn’t feel terrible except his cock is trapped against the sheet. The friction is unbearable. They both picture his cock, purple and swollen, trapped.

“You need what?”

“I—I need to come. I need you to make me come,” he pleads.

“And who’s gonna make you come?”

“Tim Tim Tim please – ” Finally, Tim lets him up, tugs a few times on his cock. It doesn’t take much. Waves of pleasure course through every one of Andy’s veins, he can’t even see anymore, it’s all too much, he only knows this bed, this room, this –

He falls forward for the last time that night, bonelessly, onto the bed, face down. Tim keeps thrusting, keeps fucking his engorged hole, until, finally, breathlessly, he comes, white-hot spurts that coat Andy’s ass and drip down onto the bed. Tim lets himself fall forward and lands right beside Andy, still short of breath. Andy’s head is right against his chest.

Just before he falls asleep, he thinks he hears Andy whisper, “Thank you.” But he probably imagined it.


End file.
